


The King's Rule

by Spencebox



Series: Game of Thrones Two Shot Fics [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe- King Petyr Baelish, Catelyn Stark does Not Trust Petyr, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Forehead Kisses, Grooming, Longing, Memories in Time, No Underage Sex, Older Man/Younger Woman, POV Petyr Baelish, Petyr worships Sansa, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Petyr Baelish, Possessive Sex, Sleepy Kisses, Smut in the 2nd Chapter, The Baratheons are Dead, The Lannisters are Dead, Tyrion Lannister Ships It, Vaginal Fingering, except tyrion, honestly, soft touches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:55:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29360658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spencebox/pseuds/Spencebox
Summary: In which Petyr Baelish, King of the Andals and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, has only ever loved one woman his entire life, and he intends to bring her home.
Relationships: Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark
Series: Game of Thrones Two Shot Fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2194359
Comments: 18
Kudos: 58





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [His Cage, His Queen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19166890) by [lioness47](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lioness47/pseuds/lioness47). 



> Y'ALL 
> 
> I read His Cage, His Queen a few weeks ago and holy shit! It's amazing and I recommend it! I love the concept of King Petyr Baelish and Sansa beside him on the Iron Throne, and this fic really inspired me to do my own twist.

**_ Part 1: _ **

Petyr sighed to himself, nails tapping a thoughtless rhythm on the armrest of his throne. The crown resting on his head felt heavier than normal, tighter than he liked. Perhaps the smithy could have it loosened, redesigned, more jewels added or something to make it feel less _tight._

As of late, the knives and swords in the throne that he had rightfully claimed- Lord Baelish, First of his Name and King of the Andals and rightful ruler of Westeros- felt sharper than normal.

He dared think some of them even pinched into his back, red staining his finest of silks. And his wear, his handmade robes that were finer than the lives of every peasant in the Capital, had felt constricting in his chest, nearly suffocating his throat with wiry, nimble fingers that were ever unreleasing. 

A man from the Fingers on the Iron Throne; a folly amongst the court or a whisper in an alley. 

Is this how Aerys had felt in his final days before the Kingslayer had cut him down? 

Petyr looked around the Great Hall of the Throne Room. It was all he had ever dreamed of right before his very eyes; guards at his beck and call, the crown on his head while each and every person bowed before him. It was powerful for Petyr, the little boy from the little island of the _Fingers_ holding he world in the palm of his hand. 

And yet… 

Strangely enough, he had begun to feel a way he had not felt since Cat had been promised to Brandon, then Ned Stark. To see his loyal friend, the love of his life, leave him for another had surged anger through his veins. But once the anger had subsided and Cat had birthed child after child, he had begun to feel lonely. 

What worth was having Westeros if there was no one to share it with?

There were still whores who lingered outside his chambers. Their sweet words and soft tits no longer quenched his hunger, his desperate thirst for a woman with red hair and Tully eyes.

Soft pink lips that would fit so well against his own, a supple virgin body ready to give him heirs upon heir. 

Gods, the ways in which he envisioned Sansa Stark, the daughter of Catelyn, would put any whoremonger to shame. 

They’d met only a handful of times, but he remembered each one.

* * *

It had been a particularly harsh winter night in Winterfell when Petyr had arrived, snow covering his fine coat and pristine shoes. The winters in the North lasted anywhere from six to fourteen moons, and this one was veering past eight. It was such a stark difference from King’s Landing, where the sun never set on the ocean waters of Blackwater Bay. 

“Petyr!” exclaimed Catelyn. Her red hair was tied up and out of the way and a shawl hiding her shivering shoulders. 

“Cat.” He solemnly nodded. “Ned, always a pleasure.” 

“You too, Baelish, though I wish the weather had been more in favor of your visit.” 

He shook off his shoulders while grinning at the man who stole the woman he longed for. “I’ve seen worse, I promise you.” 

Catelyn smiled at her old friend, “Oh, Petyr, I’ve missed you. I don’t think you’ve had the pleasure of meeting our children. They’re already so grown up now.”

She yelled, “Arya, Sansa, Robb, Bran! Come meet our guest!” 

Truthfully, he’d barely looked at Arya and Bran, both boyish and tough with soft hair yet to be brushed by their Septa. He tried not to ponder what their children would have looked like; perhaps darker eyes and duller eyes.

Robb, on the other hand, had inherited his Mother’s red curls, though his jaw held the strength destined for the future King in the North. 

Ned had just begun to mutter meaningless words about the location of Benjen Stark when the final Stark entered the room.

From his position just beyond the door, it was difficult to see her face, he assumed it would be a replica for Cat or perhaps she would hold the boorish features of Ned and the rest of the Starks. 

Unfortunately, the air in his lungs grew tight and his hands clenched at his sides once the young girl named Sansa Stark stood before him. Her eyes were sapphires and her lips the soft pink petals of a blooming rose. The long bright red locks of hair cascading down her thin shoulders only made her skin seem more pale. A child, he scolded himself, she is but a child of Cat and she is _not_ Cat.

No, she was more beautiful than Cat ever was or would ever be. Cat’s eyes were duller than the waters of the Narrow Sea, her once pale, soft skin now rough and haggard with age.

The woman Petyr had loved had died with the Tully name, but Sansa- _sweet, sweet, Sansa_ \- was something more. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Her voice, while directed at him, echoed through his ears. “I’m Sansa.” 

“Petyr,” he desperately tried to keep hunger from his voice, not wanting to scare the girl. “Call me Petyr.” 

She’d whispered, “Petyr” and he knew, there was no going back. 

* * *

“Would you care to join me on a stroll?” 

Sansa’s head had shot up from intensely embroidering a deep blue dress, and Petyr smiled. It was pleasing that she had a passion in an art not concerning affairs muddied with blood and war, but instead ones keen on delicate designs for her nimble fingers. 

He took pride in seeing red blossom on her cheeks as he stepped into the room, and she meekly whispered, “Right now, Lord Baelish?” 

Cat had insisted her daughter call him a proper title, but every time she did, he said, “Sweetling, my friends call me Petyr.” To which she would grin as demure as a fawn. 

Embroidery forgotten, she rose with the grace of a Lady in the making, turning Petyr’s insides to mush. The dress she wore was cut lower than the others, the pale skin of her chest- which had yet to blossom and flourish with the breasts of a flowered maiden- was on display for his eyes.

A deep possessive urge to mark the white canvas of skin lurked in his belly. 

“I always appreciate the company of a beautiful woman.” He said, steeping deeper into her chambers, though not daring to shut the door. Her reputation would be sullied if anyone were to come by and see her alone with another man. 

She stood as he came closer, “I would love to join you, Petyr.” He shivered every time she said his name.

He held out his arm, “Let us.” 

Gingerly, her arm nestled in with his. When she stood this close to his side, the floral smell of her hair invaded his senses, tarnishing his thoughts and bringing a smile to his face. 

Summer had taken course upon Winterfell, and the waves of pale snow had melted into lush greenery speckled with budding flowers and saplings yet to bloom.

It was a beautiful sight to see, and it reminded Petyr of home. But alas, even the Fingers did not hold such beauty, as did Winterfell. 

They strolled farther than Petyr had intended, content with having her near and within his reach. 

“How long do you intend to remain in Winterfell this time, Petyr?” Sansa asked. “I’d hate for you to miss the lovely weather. It’s typically cold and dreary, but it’s quite nice now, don’t you think?” 

“I do, Sweetling.” He agreed, no longer staring at the miles of lush grass, but instead at Sansa, watching her move from his side and kneel down.

There was no one around to watch his gaze at her backside, fingers aching for a single touch. 

But no, he instead mused aloud. “I only wish that my home could compare, but alas, nothing compares to the North.” 

“What about King’s Landing?” she turned back, hands cradling white lilies. “I’ve heard the sun never sets by the Narrow Sea. I hope to see it one day.” 

One day, he’d take her to the Capital and dress her in their fine silks, feed her the rich and soft meats from the palm of his hands, and lay the Iron Throne at her feet.

In his care, as his ward- as his wife, his queen- she’d want for nothing. 

“I’ve been, Sweetling, and one day, you shall see it for yourself.” 

Standing, Sansa strode back to Petyr, near toe-to-toe and chest-to-chest. He held his breath as she carefully laced one lily into the collar of his coat, her nimble fingers working under his chin. Up close, he could see her well-kept nails; smell the aroma she’d dampened on her wrists.

It would take nothing to snap such a dainty wrist, nearly half the size of himself. 

“There.” She declared. “Now, when you go home, you’ll remember Winterfell.” 

Carefully, he reached up to lightly pet the flower so carefully weaved into his collar, not wanting to damage the soft petals, or even worse, break them apart. 

“I could never forget you, Sweetling.” Feeling bold, he tugged her against his chest and rested his nose against the crown of her head. He longed to bottle her scent and wear it always. 

“I could make you something to wear as well,” she offered while stepping back slightly, running her hands along the panes of his covered chest.

“Is there something in particular you’d like, Petyr?” 

The things he wanted from Sansa were not ones that could be created, so, he simply swallowed and said, “Anything from you is worth more than the Iron Throne.” 

“Petyr…” She sighed, letting her voice drift off with the summer winds.

He saw the conflicting look in her eyes, peeked at the desire lingering in her Tully blues, and did his best to deny the urge to deflower her in a field.

That night, he discovered an embroidered handkerchief on the desk in his rooms, covered in white lilies. 

* * *

The Festival of the Seven was something Sansa had longed for since the age of one and ten, and when the letter from King Baelish had arrived, she’d nearly felt her heart give out.

All of them- Bran, Rickon, Robb, Jon, Arya and even Sandor- had been asked to join King’s Landing in celebrating the seven nights of the gods. 

Sadly, they would miss the first night, the Father, but they would be present for the rest; the Mother, the Maiden, the Crone, the Warrior, the Smith and the Stranger. 

Petyr had strolled into the Throne Room as they’d arrived, and had once again, been stunned by Sansa. She was older now, only by two years, but so much had changed.

Her once budding breasts were now constricted into a tight dress, which hid the wide hips he longed to feel under his fingertips. Tully’s were known for two things; blue eyes and being _fertile_ , which Petyr intended to test himself. 

“Your Grace.” Ned said, with the respect deserving of a King. 

Cat, however, smiled like an old friend. “Oh, Petyr. You look well.” 

“Same to you, Cat. I hope the North has not been cruel to you on your journey here.” 

“Same as always, Petyr. It would not be the North without the cold.” Cat’s smile dropped. “Why have you called us here? Why not just Ned?” 

He reared back as if struck, while Ned whispered, “Cat, he is the King.” 

“I assure you, Cat, I did not bring you here for charges against the Throne. It is the Festival of the Seven, and I know young Sansa has longed to see it with her own eyes.”

His eyes turned to Ned, “I will admit, I do wish to speak to the Warden of the North about a most important matter.”

The moment her daughter's name had left his lips, a dark look had fallen unto Catelyn Stark’s face. It irked Petyr that Cat, his childhood friend, gazed at him as though _he_ were the guilty man here, as though he’d committed a crime and had yet to face the trial.

The scar on his chest began to itch; trial by combat had once nearly been his undoing. 

“Whatever you need to say to my husband, you can say to me.” 

His patience had begun to grow thin, but Ned cut in before they could tear into each other. “I will speak with you, in private, your Grace.”

He called for his sons. “Jon, Robb, watch over your sisters if you wish to venture away from the guards.” 

Jon nodded, lips deeply set into a pout, “Of course.”

Petyr and Ned settled into the small council chamber, the two men side by side while the sounds of cheers and laughter rang through the air. 

Ned was the one to break the silence; “What would you ask of me, your Grace?” 

Petyr cleared his throat; “How would you feel if I offered you a place in my Court?” 

“I do not…” Ned nearly scratched his head in confusion. “I do not understand, your Grace.” 

“Please, we are friends. Petyr will do.” He leaned forward; staring into the brown eyes of the man who stole Cat and had bore the most beautiful thing he’d ever longed for in this world.

“I would like you to be my Hand. Take your place beside me, beside the Iron Throne and help me make a better world; we could unite the Seven Kingdoms, you and I.” 

Petyr could see in Ned’s dark brown eyes that Ned would never agree. 

“It is a most gracious offer, your Grace, but my place is in Winterfell. I am Warden of the North; I fight for them and they for me. And I could not take my family away from their home. Arya and Bran would never forgive me. I daresay even Sansa would not be in favor.” 

He couldn’t say that decisions of his youngest was of any importance, or whether Cat trusted him had ever made him question a decision- and Sansa would love to frolic in the waters and bathe in the suns of the Capital.

A dark part of his mind knew he could simply keep her here, whether she wanted it or not. 

But every flower needed to be nourished, and his Sansa required only the best of care. He would be her water, her soil, her sun, but first, he had to pluck her at just the right time.

“Ned,” Petyr said.

“I do not offer this to anyone else but someone I know I can trust, and trust does not come easy to a man like me. I know you are loyal to a fault, Ned, and a man like you would be an oasis in a place like this. Please.” Petyr begged. 

But Ned shook his head. “You say I am loyal to a fault, but my loyalty shall always remain to my family. I am still Warden in the North, and I look to you for guidance, but my place is in the North. That is my final answer.” 

The stubbornness of Starks was something Petyr hated, but then again, he never expected Ned to say yes.

The Starks were right where they needed to be; “I do hope we can still remain friends, your Grace.” 

Petyr stood and shook Ned’s hand, “I’d love nothing more. Now, let us find your family and enjoy the best King’s Landing has to offer.” 

“You know,” Petyr mused aloud as they walked. “It would have done a great deal of shock if you had agreed to my proposal.” 

Ned frowned, “Then why ask?” 

“I needed to see where your loyalties lie.” Petyr rounded the corner, and instantly spotted Cat waiting with Sansa. “I’m certain there are other ways we can prove your loyalty.” 

“Petyr.” Sansa stepped forward and hugged him, resting her face into the center of his chest, her arms closing around his sides. “You kept your promise.” 

“I did, Sweetling.” 

Cat frowned, but Petyr kept her close, and murmured, “Let me show you what King’s Landing has to offer.” 

Ned, who’d taken his wife’s side, started to lead her away, whispering into her ear, but Petyr paid it no mind. It was of no importance anymore; Sansa was _here._

* * *

Petyr stared at the Iron Throne, mouth twitching in earnest, despising the silence that infected his mind. In his hand, the jewels of the crown cut into his flesh, blood pooling on the stone floor.

He stalked out of the Throne Room, waving away pitiful Kingsguard eager for a scrap of recognition from their King. 

It was barely morning, the sun hardly peeking over the watery horizon, but Petyr still invaded the chambers of the last living Lannister, Tyrion, whose head had been firmly planted between a whores thighs.

It was a whore Petyr had seen before- pretty but too skinny for his taste, and her hair not red and bright like dying roses he kept in the gardens-and she yelped at the sight of the King. 

“Your Grace.” The Imp did his best to cover their naked bodies, but Petyr paid it little mind. “Is it not a bit early to start the day's work? We’ve yet to break our fast.” 

Petyr glared at the whore, but Tyrion begged, “Shae can be trusted, your Grace.” 

“If I trusted every whore I met, I would have been dead for quite some time.” Petyr sneered at her, “Get out.” 

Quickly, Shae was dressed and out the door, leaving Tyrion to sit up and frown at his King. 

“What is it, your Grace?”

Petyr took a deep breath; “Until my return, you shall serve in my place. I do trust that a 

Lannister knows their way around what is required to keep the peace in my home. I do hope I will not return to be King of a pile of ash.” 

“Where are you going?” Tyrion asked. “How many men are you taking?” 

“Just a handful of Kingsguard and myself. I doubt I will need more than that for what I intend to do.” 

“And pray tell, what exactly is it you intend to do?”

Petyr stared out in the rising sun, watching the waters bob back and forth.

It was a mesmerizing sight, and perhaps, one day Sansa would tour the garrison of boots that bobbed as well, moving with the ocean waves. 

“I intend to ride for Winterfell.” He turned away from the window and grinned at the Imp. “I believe the Starks have something of mine, and I intend to take it back.” 


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wedding, a bedding, and back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is... 
> 
> 22 pages. It wasn't supposed to be, but it is. I worked really hard on this and it took like three days, and my beta Tien approves! Her review is 
> 
> “... good pussy eating experience…” 
> 
> Also! For any Got sticklers, I'm aware I mixed the vows of a wedding under the Seven and the North. So don't comment that I'm doing it wrong! This is fanfic, I'm here to have fun!
> 
> Once again, thanks to lioness47 for inspiring me and a few moments/lines in this fic, you're the the best!
> 
> Hopefully, not too many grammar mistakes; 22 pages is a lot to read over and my beta helps more with overall execution than writing!
> 
> Enjoy! Comment!

Bran saw them first; a group of men on horseback, trotting through the dry Northern dirt, the flag of House Baelish moving swiftly against the harsh winds. 

Previously, the sigil had been the fearsome Lannister lion, but had swiftly become the mockingbird of Lord Baelish.

“Someone’s coming.” Bran moved away from the window to tug on his eldest sister’s dress, watching her blue eyes dart to the window. “I think it’s the King.” 

She nearly bowled him over on her rush to nearly fling herself from the window to gaze out. They were still far off, but a piggish squeal erupted from her lungs, and Bran nearly fell again when she began to yell loud enough to wake the dead- “Petyr’s here!”-and ran from the room. 

Catelyn barely looked up from her reading as Sansa rushed in, panting against the door with a smile, “The King is nearly at our doors, Mother. Why do you think he’s come? Oh-”

She grinned, “He hasn’t been here in so long, I’ve nearly forgotten what he looks like.” 

“It has not been that long, my dear.” Catelyn looked up and shut her book, petting the sleeping head resting on her lap.

“And I suppose it must be something important if it warrants a visit and not a simple raven.”

Looking at the sleeping Rickon, Sansa slipped the doors shut and asked, “What if… he’s met someone? What if…” 

Sighing, Catelyn looked to her daughter. 

For years now, since her daughter had been training to become a woman of the Court, there had always been a fascination with Petyr, and truthfully, it angered the Queen in the North. She hid every insult that could be said about the man from the _Fingers,_ denied every beg and plea to hear about stories of their youth, and wished to the Old Gods and the New that her precious, sweet girl would forget about the King. 

That he even sat on the Throne still befuddled the Queen; he was a Master of Falsities, and had no doubt slaughtered his way to the top. 

_Chaos is a ladder, Cat, and I intend to climb it,_ he’d once whispered in her ear, and she still remembered the day he’d tried to kill Brandon Stark in a trial by combat, and now bore the scar of his failure. 

He did not love Sansa- he was incapable of loving any other but himself. Her nalis sunk into the seat below as Sansa gushed “I wonder if he’s missed me. I hope he still remembers me.” 

“It would take much more than time for Petyr to forget you, my sweet girl.” 

Catelyn watched her daughter walk from the room, yelping for Ned that Petyr was near, and hopefully no one but the Gods could hear her curse the King. 

* * *

The party from the Capitol waited patiently to be let into Winterfell. 

As always, the Warden of the North was the first to make face and greet the King. They exchanged handshakes and courteous smiles, offering the bounty of Kingsguard room and lodgings for their stay. Typically, a feast would follow the arrival of the King, it was a sign of goodwill and peace from one region to the next. 

“I believe that won’t be necessary,” Petyr smiled. “I only come as a friend to Winterfell. Today, I am not your King.” 

Rightfully so, Ned gave a confused chuckle. “I must insist, Petyr. All of us look forward to the festivities following your visit. It’s been too long since you’ve graced my home. I feared Sansa would grow sick with worry had you not arrived.” 

At Petyr’s curious look, Ned continued. “She fears you’ve forgotten her, and abandoned her to the harsh, cold winters of the North. Cat and I attempt to assure her that you’ve had your hands full with the Seven Kingdoms.” 

Petyr nearly let out a boisterous chuckle, one that would no doubt heed strange looks from his guard. As if he, the man who’d singlehandedly taken the Iron Throne from underneath Cersei Lannister, could forget about the girl whose siren song had called to him from hundreds of thousands of miles away.

A foolish thought for his sweet girl; she was his reason for breathing, for existing. The travel across the South and into the chill of the North had been for her hand. 

Oh, he longed for the day he could whisper in her ear the things he’d done, the people he’d killed, just to be here, today. Would she attempt to run from his arms, screaming that he was a monster of his own creation that deserved to be hanged until death? Or perhaps she would understand just how much he cared for her and would lift her skirts and widen her thighs, welcoming him into her warm heat?

Standing before her Father was not the time to be picturing her void of her smallclothes. 

Smiling at Ned, Petyr laid a hand on the Warden’s shoulder, “It would be remiss of me to deny you all the pleasure of a feast in my honor. Though perhaps, I may have a word with you and Cat before you prepare for the festivities.” 

“Of course, my friend. I shall fetch Cat and we shall speak in my solar.” Ned stepped aside. “I believe you know the way.” 

True to Ned’s word, the walls of Winterfell were old friends to Petyr’s eyes. Every stone was a memory from his childhood that he longed to wipe away; every corridor a different path down his longing for the wrong woman he wished to forget.

Being just the boy from the Fingers chasing after Cat and Lysa had been a time of such innocence for all of them, and now it was all gone. 

Now, he strolled through Winterfell as a King of the Andals, looking down at the children of Winterfell. There were so many of them rolling in the snow, laughing carefree, unaware of the horrors of the world outside the Castle Walls. He spotted the two youngest Stark children, Arya and Bran laying in the snow, heads turned to the sky. 

It had been long since his eyes had seen Sansa; he hoped she hadn’t changed too much.

* * *

When he entered the Solar, Cat and Ned were already waiting. 

True to the Stark spirit that lay in Ned, his face remained friendly and open as a book, easy to read and spy mistakes or discrepancies. However, Stark’s were trustworthy, through and through. Cat, on the other hand, was not a Stark. 

While her face remained impassive, he knew his childhood best friend well enough to know she was boiling with rage inside, nails digging half moons in her palms while holding bated breaths. Cat had never been good at hiding her emotions, the same for the rest of the Tully name. Constantly on the brink of hysteria, Lysa had foiled many plans of battle and mischief on account of her lack of emotional control. 

While Sansa had inherited the Tully eyes and hips, she’d always been better at masking herself. 

“Ned,” he nodded to the Warden of the North. 

“Cat.” 

Her nostrils flared, “Petyr.” 

Barely a moment passed before Cat sat up straight, biting out “Why have you come here, Petyr? It’s rude of you to not send a raven in your wake. Our kitchens will be overwhelmed trying to prepare for a feast at such short notice.” 

“He is not at fault for that, sweet wife. I felt it would be unkind of us to not hold a feast for our dear friend.” 

“And I assure you, Cat, I’d intended to send a raven before my arrival.” 

“And yet you did not.” 

“Aye.” Petyr nodded. “I do apologize, it seemed to have slipped my mind. This trip was more unexpected than I’d intended” 

“And what exactly is it you’d intended to gain by coming here?” 

Petyr smoothed down the material of his cloak, crossing one leg over the other. “Perhaps I wanted to visit an old friend. Is that not what we are, Cat? Old friends?” 

“I doubt your intentions lie anywhere but my daughter's chambers.” 

Luckily, Petyr had spent years learning to school his features, though he truly wanted to smile at her ire. At least she was smarter than he took her for, though the same could not be said for poor Ned.

“What do you mean by that?” Ned turned to his wife, asking with furrowed brows. “How have you come to think this of him?” 

“Is it not obvious, Ned? I see the way Petyr, our friend and ally of many years, has come to rip our daughter from our arms and imprison her in the Capitol, no doubt in his chambers as well. He’s filled her head with lies of love and trust, as if he is even capable of such a thing. She’s convinced herself that you care for her, and I will not allow you to destroy my daughter and turn her into one of your whores.”

“Cat!” 

“Is that really what you think of me?” The air in the room grew cold and tense. “That I am not capable of love?” 

Cat’s knuckles turned white, and she gripped her dress hard enough to tear. “You don’t love her, Petyr. You are doing this to punish me for all the wrongs you feel I’ve committed against you. Sansa does not have to be a part of this.” 

“But she does.” Petyr rolled his tongue over his teeth.

“She always has been, and you can deny that all you want, Cat. I’ve not come here for talk of peace or war, but of a marriage between your house and mine. A union of two people who love and have loved one another for too long.” 

Ned, who’d been silently watching his wife and King bicker, cut in. He said “You intend to marry Sansa?” 

“I do.” 

Seeing that she was losing this fight, Cat turned to her Lord Husband with dewy eyes, “Ned, sweetheart, you mustn’t listen to a word he says. He could never love her.” 

“We were once friends, Cat, but our time of friendship ended long ago.” Petyr turned to Ned. 

“I once thought what I felt for Cat was love, and for that, I ask forgiveness. But you must understand, until I watched Sansa grow into the women she has become, I neer thought I could love again. I have truly, with my entire being, only ever loved one woman in my entire life....” 

“Your daughter.” Petyr said.

Cat moved without a thought, standing up and reaching forward to slap Petyr in the face, red blossoming on his cheek. Her palm pulsed as Petyr turned back forward, watching her with pierced eyes.

“If I wanted, I could have that hand removed.” His nostrils flared. “Striking your King is a punishable offense.” 

“Then be done with it.” 

“Please, both of you, sit down and let us discuss what is to be done.” With bated breath, Ned watched Petyr gracefully sit back down, while his overzealous wife perched on the edge of her seat, red palm folded down on her lap. 

“Does Sansa know about any of this? Your… marriage proposal?” 

“Of course not. I would not ask her such a thing without approval of her Mother and Father.” 

“Good.” Ned said. “Now-” 

“But,” Petyr cut in. 

“I do not want the two of you to be mistaken. If I’d wanted to, I could have stormed Winterfell with my army from every region under my command and burned your home to the ground beneath your feet. I could have wedded Sansa beneath the ashes of the Godswood and made her a woman in her childhood chambers. There are many things I could have done as King on the Iron Throne, and I chose to ask and negotiate with you both.” 

Petyr took great pride in seeing fear on both of their faces. It was at times like these that people forgot who they were speaking to. He was not some simple man from the slip of the _Fingers_ any longer. The Seven Kingdoms bent the knee to him, and while they were his love’s parents, he would only negotiate so far. 

“And for this, we thank you, Petyr.” Ned, the sensible one, nodded in thanks. “Most men would simply steal our daughter, and that you have not is something I will never forget.” 

“You’re all mad!” Cat nearly screamed, her cheeks red and teeth bared. 

“You would sell our daughter to a man like him?” 

Petyr could see that Cat’s tactic of using her womanly tears and distress was working, and he laid down his final card in their game. 

“I once spoke to you of where your loyalties lie, Ned, and you denied yourself a position on my court on account of being Warden of the North and refusing to leave your family behind, which is a trait I must commend. But now, as I ask you for your daughter's hand in marriage, you must ask yourself if you are truly loyal to your King.” 

A tense few moments passed, and Petyr allowed a wide smirk to cross his face as Ned hung his head down low, leaning over to pat his wife’s leg. 

And all the while, Cat glared with wet tears on her red cheeks. 

* * *

He found himself outside Sansa’s room quickly after Ned had agreed to their union. 

Of course, there had been terms from both sides. 

Cat had demanded it happen in the Godswood in Winterfell, to which Petyr had wholeheartedly agreed. Sansa had never seen the massive Weirwood Tree in King’s Landing; she would want to be wed in a place that was special to her. Ned had insisted it not take place for many more moons, insisting she needed time to understand that her role as a woman would slowly grow into that of a Mother. 

Instead of learning to sew and sing, she would be expected to birth and nurse babes that would grow to take over the Iron Throne. Petyr vehemently disagreed. A man was only so patient, and he would not be leaving here without his wife in a carriage, already freshly fucked after their wedding. 

It had taken more forceful words for Ned to agree that their wedding would happen only one moon from now, but Petyr would be forbidden from bedding Sansa until then. Of course, he’d scoffed; he’d waited all this time to undress his sweet girl. One more moon would not hurt. 

Petyr’s terms had been more simple and in his and Sansa’s favor. There would be no outside attempts to sway Sansa from his side, unless they wished to feel the blade of his knife, that is. And she would remain in King’s Landing for the rest of her days, aside from the occasional visit with their future children. 

If Petyr were being honest, he’d expected a bit more of a fight from Cat, but her slap had been unexpected. 

She’d always been volatile, unlike her soft brother, Edmure or the deranged Lysa, and it was a trait he’d been drawn to. He’d been drawn to the fire as bright as her hair, but Sansa burned much, much brighter. 

He knocked twice on the door, and waited with baited breath. 

It swung open not a moment later and he felt the air leave his lungs. The last time he’d seen Sansa, she’d still been under his chin, constantly gazing up with affection in her Tully blues. But alas, no longer was she the small slip of a girl. Now, they were nose to nose. 

Initially, he’d expected her to be standoffish and petulant, even angry at the years that had spent apart. No ravens had come with his name, and the only ones from Winterfell had been from the Warden of the North. But instead, her wide blue eyes grew as dewy as her Mother’s, only the tears weren’t from anger. 

“Petyr?” Sansa whispered, launching into his chest and wrapping her arms around his shoulders, pulling him tightly into her chambers. 

Somehow, she maneuvered the door shut with him pressed against it, her nose pressed into the crease of his neck. It was overwhelming to his senses to have her scent assaulting his nose, her floral essence encasing any rational thought. He’d dreamed of moments like this, and he carefully allowed his arms to hug her even closer, his nose pressing against the crown on her head. 

Moments later, she pulled back with a wobbly lower lip. 

“I’ve missed you, Petyr” she whispered, encompassing the petulance of the child he once knew. “I thought you’d forgotten about me.” 

“How could I ever forget you, Sansa?” He nosed her cheek and lightly pushed her away. “I’ve missed you as well.” 

Taking in the rooms that he had not seen in many years, Petyr ran his fingers along the handmade desk, eventually taking a seat on her clean bed, running his fingers over her quilted sheets. He hoped she changed the chambers they would share into ones that smelt of lilies, too. 

“You never wrote to me,” she said. “You never visited. I thought you’d married some Southern woman already.” 

It never ceased to amaze Petyr when women grew jealous, especially Sansa. It wasn’t as if there were anyone else who could compare. 

Instead of correcting her horrid, false assumptions, he said, “Do you know why I’ve come here, sweetling?” 

He enjoyed the way she shivered at the simple title he’d called her since childhood, and he decided to have a little fun before they started their real talk of their future. 

She said “No.” while crossing her arms, pushing out her soft but round breasts. 

Petyr pondered aloud, “Perhaps you’re right and I’ve found myself a sweet Southern bride, and I personally wanted to see you there at our wedding.”

With leisure, Petyr stood from the bed and sauntered to the stone faced Sansa, raising a brow in delight at her display of jealousy. “Or perhaps, I’ve come for the most beautiful woman in Westeros.” 

It only took that to have her crossed arms falling and a lovely shade of red to cross her cheeks. She stuttered out, “I-I… Petyr,” but he ssh’d her softly. 

“I’ve traveled across Westeros to stand before you, Sansa. I’ve already asked your Father for his approval, and now I want to hear it from your lips.” A cold breeze blew in through the open window. 

“I sat on the Iron Throne, and realized I could never be truly happy without you by my side. Everything I’ve ever done, I’ve done to be with you. I only ask for your love in return, Sansa, nothing more than your devotion and care until the day I die.” 

He heard her gasp when he bent the knee, the cold floor biting into his skin as her skirts danced against his forehead. For a King to be on his knees, it was a sign of weakness. 

And for Sansa, he was weaker than a man dying of thirst, only she was his drink of choice and she gave him life.

Slowly and softly, he felt Sansa run her hands through his short hair. It was all she did at first, and he leaned into her touch, craving it after so long. 

“I’ve always loved you too, Petyr. I do not think my heart could take you leaving me again.” 

“And I will not,” Petyr declared, looking up into her blue eyes. “You will be by my side until the end of days. This, I promise you.” 

Much more gently than a man like Petyr deserved, Sansa pulled him up to stand face to face, cupping his cheek. He hoped she held him like this after they made love, basking in the afterglow of their coupling. 

“I know it would be most improper to touch your bride before the wedding but…” she trailed off. Her thumb that had been resting on his cheek moved to his bottom lip, rubbing across the dry surface with utter patience. 

“Has any man ever touched your lips?” asked Petyr, trying to shove down any brutal jealousy. 

“Only one has tried, but he was not you.”

 _His name,_ he wanted to growl, _I’ll gut him for trying to take a piece of you away from me_. But then again, she’d said he’d only tried. Which meant her lips had never been ravished. 

“This will not be the last time I will feel your lips on mine, sweetling.” Petyr promised in a soft whisper, finally leaning in and kissing her for the first time in his life and hers. And _oh_ \- how it felt. 

The pink pillows of her lips were softer than the finest Southern silk, handcrafted and made for days on end. They fit against his so well, and his arm creeped around her back to tug her close, loving the gasp he swallowed from her throat. She was as shy as one would expect, but he could feel her own hands tugging him closer, wanting more and more. 

His greedy little Sansa. 

They were desperate for one another, and when he felt her pink little tongue try to invade his mouth, he immediately broke their kiss, both breathing heavy with blown pupils. 

Gods, the things he wanted to do to her. The places he wanted to kiss and bite and _savor._ But he was a patient man, and he gently pulled back, keeping her at arm's length. 

“We mustn’t,” he insisted, shaking his head when her lips turned down. “Believe me, I would love nothing more than to see what lies beneath your skirts. But I will wed you in your Godswood before I take you as my wife.” 

Righting his top, and smoothing down the wrinkles in hers, he began to walk to the door. “I believe we have a wedding to plan, my love.” 

* * *

Three days prior to their wedding, a light snow began to fall. 

It encompassed the entire region of the North, turning every tree and road a blinding white. Families were forced to herd in their cattle from the cold, and children cried as their favorite flowers wilted overnight. Travelers cursed the Gods for chilling their horses to the bone, forcing them to return back again along the Kingsroad. 

Thankfully, no storms had whirled across the frozen land to take place upon Winterfell. The Starks were grateful for the weather being in their favor, and even Cat shed a tear or two from within the Godswood. 

Catelyn, out of respect for her daughter, wore her finest silks and dressed the part of a happy Queen. 

Bran and Arya stood side by side. Arya, much to Cat’s irritation, refused to don a formal dress, insisting on breeches and a tunic, uncaring of the importance of the wedding at hand. Bran, whose hair had grown much too long for a young man, rested against Cat’s side with a yawn every few minutes. The young lord had been woken up much earlier than normal, much to his chagrin. 

Young Rickon, still a babe in mind and body, lay awake in Cat’s arms with wide, wondrous eyes. His shaggy hair mimicked Bran, the boys having been inseparable since birth. 

The Godswood had never been more alive, and Ned Stark stood under the Weirwood Tree. He’d cloaked himself in his Northern coat, shoulders covered with furs that dragged across the snowy ground. Traditionally, the head of the groom’s house officiated the wedding, but Petyr had given Ned the chance to marry off his eldest daughter.

At the edge of the crowd of happy guests stood Jon Snow, his face downturned and cold. 

His grey eyes watched the spectacle of a marriage that twisted his belly through and through. It had always been known that his pretty sister would marry off to a warlord or King of some slip of land. She was the jewel of the North, this much he knew. But still, a part of him loathed Baelish for taking her away from this place. 

The other part of him despised King Petyr for loving her, too. 

Finally as the sun died down to end the day, the crowd amongst the Godswood fell into a silence. Torches of light began to be lit amongst the people, holding them up to light the path for the union at hand. 

Begrudgingly and without ease Cat raised one high, clutching Rickon close with her other arm. 

Silently stalking through the thin layers of white snow, Petyr Baelish looked around at the people of the North. Their eyes lacked judgement and malice- aside from Cat, of course- and he allowed his pulse to slow when he stopped before Ned Stark, bowing to the Warden of the North. 

Petyr moved to the right of the other man, turning to look and wait with chilled breaths. 

It almost didn’t feel real to Petyr. The eyes of the Weirwood tree did not burn into his back as expected, but instead the gaze felt like that of a Father gifting his son the one thing he’d always wanted. And yet, his prize was not a bow nor hawk, or some meaningless thing meant to be broken. 

He was being gifted something he’d longed for, craved and desired beyond belief. He truly hoped this wasn’t a dream. 

In the distance, she walked like an ethereal being not fit for the mortal gaze. 

Trailing behind her were layers upon layers of colored silks, each one taking another shade of blue. Her skirts mimicked her Tully eyes, ranging from sapphire to cobalt. The skirts lowest to the ground were pale white, dragging along the snowy ground. The silks cinched around her waist, defining the hips that would birth his heirs. And her breasts were tightly held in place with a single wrapping of dark black silk. 

Her shoulders were covered in a lace work of the finest threads, their dark color contrasting to that of her frivolous skirts. There was so much of her pale skin covered, and yet he felt no measure of ire, knowing that no other man would ever have the pleasure of removing each and every layer in ease, revealing more and more for his eyes only. 

His hands clenched at his sides with each step she took, gazing at her flowing locks. Flaming braids weaved in a design he could not follow, trailed over her head, and the sea of red that trailed down her back was all the more stunning. Sansa had never looked more like a woman until this very moment, and for the first time in many years, Petyr began to sweat with nervousness. 

At her side was Robb, whole dark curls now held a thin layer of snow, walked step by step with his sister. The entire time his jaw remained clenched. 

It was no secret that Robb despised the wedding at hand, certain that Petyr was not only too old for his sister, but a whoremonger at heart. It had taken barely a tear down the bride’s cheeks for his pleas to silence into nothingness. 

The pair held their heads high while gliding through the snow, and Petyr let out a sigh of relief when she was nearly close enough to touch. And he would’ve too, if not for a harsh glare from the heir to Winterfell. 

“Who comes before the Old Gods on this Night?” Ned Stark asked his son, looking past his daughter and King. 

Robb cleared his throat before answering his Father, “Sansa, of House Stark, come here to wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?” 

“Petyr, of House Baelish, King of the Andals and Seven Kingdoms. Who gives her?” 

“Robb, of House Stark, her Father’s son.” 

Sansa and Petyr took each other’s hand, and Ned turned to his daughter. 

“Lady Sansa, of House Stark, do you take this man?” 

“I do.” 

Petyr felt his chest flutter, and listened as Ned began to speak aloud once more. 

“We stand here in the sight of Gods and Men to witness the union of man and wife: one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever. Let it be known that Sansa of House Stark and Petyr of House Baelish are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.” 

In the distance, Jon Snow hung his head in grief. 

With a nod from Ned, Petyr recites his vows; “I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.” 

And in return, Sansa recites hers; “I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.” 

Inching closer to his bride, Petyr utters “With this kiss, I pledge my love.” 

Their kiss is filled with love and adoration that had bloomed and blossomed beneath the Gods, both Old and New, and Petyr no longer cared for the people watching nor the eyes of the Weirwood Tree still watching with bloody eyes.

His mind only had space for his new wife Sansa and nothing more. 

* * *

Petyr felt his eyes twitch, trying to calm the urge to go throttle the Stark bastard for unabashedly dancing with his wife. 

From his seat next to Ned and a seemingly disgusted Cat, he watched the two of them sway through the hoard of bodies. They were closer than he liked, in dance and companionship. The black haired bastard's hands hadn’t strayed from her soft hips, never moving down to her round behind or up to the exposed skin of her back. Petyr had already had the luxury of fingering the smooth expanse of her back, loving the soft redness that had encompassed her cheeks. 

Such a bashful thing, his little wife. 

But now, it seemed a lone wolf had wandered too close for comfort. 

“Is something troubling you, Jon? You seem… out of sorts tonight.” Sansa allowed herself to be led once more across the floor. “I expected this from Robb, but not from you. I thought you would’ve been happy for me.” 

Grey eyes widened at her accusation. “I am happy for you, Sansa.” 

“It’s rude to lie to the bride on her wedding day, you know. And besides, this is your last chance to make peace before I leave for the Capitol.” 

Shamefully, he tugged her closer as they twirled in unison, uncaring of the piercing eyes of Lord Baelish on his back. “He can’t force you to leave. Winterfell is your home.” 

“As it always will be. But I love Petyr.” A dip formed in her brow. “Can you not see how happy he makes me?”

“I know he makes you happy, Sansa, I care about nothing more than your happiness but…” 

“Yes?” Sansa asked. 

“But I don’t think he’s the man for you.” Jon gulped. “There are better men out there who would treat you like you deserve.” 

“Like you?” 

They nearly bumped into another coupled pair, but Sansa righted them in time. Jon hastily apologized to the aging woman, swinging his sister around into another dance. 

“When we were children, we talked of running away together. To somewhere where there would be no Septa’s, no rules, no Robb or Arya, just the two of us.” She smiled at her brother, gazing into his deep grey eyes, “And there was a time I would’ve believed that a place like that existed.” 

When Jon made a move to speak, she shook her head. “You’ve always been my brother, and I will always love you. But even when we were young, I loved Petyr more than anything.” 

“I never wanted to be Queen or leave Winterfell. I thought I would live and die in these walls with you all by my side. I never knew Petyr could love me more than I did him. But I was wrong, Jon.” 

“I-” she stopped, looking over his shoulder. Her eyes grew wide and a warm smile grew on her face, and Jon knew that the battle was lost. 

“If I may, I would like to dance with my wife.” 

Every other couple dancing moved away from the trio, whispering with curious eyes. Instead of giving them something to see, Sansa pecked her brother's cheek and left his arms, paying no mind to the way his hands lingered on her hips, moving to her husband's side with ease. 

With a snap of his fingers, the small trio of men started their song again. From the corner of his eye, Petyr saw Jon stalk away to the shadows of the hall, no doubt that the bastard would find a dark corner to stew in while he danced with his wife. 

While Petyr was not cruel enough to ever ban Jon from visiting Sansa, he could not deny that there would be restrictions. He saw much of himself in the bastard, chasing after what was not and will never be his. 

Instead of musing about Jon and the attempts to gain his wife’s favor, Petyr found her to be already smiling as they slowly danced through the empty floor, ignoring the gawking eyes from handmaidens and squires watching their every move. 

“He means well,” Sansa whispered into his ear. “Even if it does not come across as such, his intentions are good.” 

“Yes, I believe he intends to steal you from his King.” Petyr’s attempt to school his expression failed. “I would not blame a young man for coveting what he can never have.” 

“Jealousy does not suit you, Petyr. I assure you, there is nothing to fear from my brother.” 

“I do not fear anything. I’m merely curious about his intentions with my wife.” 

“And I am telling you that I am yours.” Her voice had dropped even softer. “I trust that your heart will never stray, and I would ask the same of you, Petyr. Jon will always be my brother and for that, I will always hold him close to my heart. But you are my husband and I am yours, just as you are mine.” 

“Sweetling,” Petyr crooned, kissing her cheek with the lightest of touch. “How I lived without you, I will never know.” 

Their meeting of lips was more tame than the one under the Godswood, but Petyr still relished in the soft touch of his wife. Soft rounds of applause rang through the hall, children gawking at their smiling King and his blushing bride. Everything was perfect in that one moment, until-

“If I may have this dance, My Lady,” came from behind the pair, and Petyr felt his annoyance flare. 

Must the bastard be as vexing as the never ceasing pout on his pale face? 

But his sweet, sweet wife paid no mind to his prominent irritation, turning to Jon with a smile in place. “I fear I will dance with no other if you take my hand for every song.” 

“If you are to live in the Capitol for the rest of your days, this night will be my last to have you in my arms.” 

If looks could kill, Jon would be burnt to a crisp. 

“I believe I was not finished here, Jon Snow.” 

“I don’t believe I asked for your hand.” Jon glared at the King. “Sansa can speak for herself.” 

So, the bastard _wanted_ to die. That could be easily arranged. 

Luckily for Jon, Sansa turned to sing in Petyr’s ear. “Actually, my feet are quite tired. I do believe I would be favorable to a lemon cake and a moment of being off my feet,” she held out her hand, “Shall we?” 

Smirking like the Stranger himself had granted him eternal life with his sweet wife, Petyr took her hand, never breaking Jon’s eyes. “We shall, my Queen.” 

Once they sat at the respected chairs, a livelier tune started to resonate through the people. Many jumped up in joy and enthusiasm, grabbing partners, willing and not, and dancing through the hall. 

Arya had found a partner in a young boy with shaggy hair and a square head, his hard jaw tense as Arya led him around with a giggle. Bran remained seated with watchful eyes, switching between pairs with interest. 

Rickon squealed in Cat’s arms, wishing to dance as well. It warmed Sansa’s heart when her Mother and Father rose to join the people. Much like Bran, Robb remained seated but not alone. 

To his side was a pretty slip of a girl, the daughter of a handmaiden from Essos that had traveled across the Narrow Sea to freedom. She was very pretty with a soft smile and kind eyes. Talisa, Sansa remembered, a sweet girl for the future heir. 

While watching the people be merry and gay, from underneath the table, Petyr carefully entwined his fingers with Sansa’s. 

* * *

The bedding ceremony had been the one thing Petyr refused to allow after his wedding. The thought of other men tearing off his wife’s clothes, groping her soft pale skin and smelling the floral scent of her hair, sent fire through his veins. No other man would see her naked flesh as long as he lived.

The feast had still been in full swing when they snuck off. A quick nod to Ned and Cat, and they were gone, strolling through the empty halls. 

And now, here in Sansa’s chambers, Petyr watched her from the doorway. 

Even from a few feet away, he could taste her nervousness on his tongue, rolling it around behind his teeth and swallowing it deep into the pit of his belly. It excited him to know that she’d never lie with another man. After tonight, every part of her would have been tainted by his touch for good. 

But his curiosity did peak, “How much did your Septa’s tell of what your wedding night would entail?” 

He relished in the blush that blossomed on her cheeks. “Not much. Just that we would both be… without our clothes and that it would hurt the first time.” 

“I cannot lie to you, sweet wife, it will hurt for just a moment,” Petyr admitted while taking place at her side. “But I will do everything I can to ease that pain once it has passed.” 

Before all of this, being King and wanting more than just the Throne, his visits to the brothels had been filled with short thrusts and moaning whores that only wanted him for the coin in his pocket. 

This time, it would be _slow._

Slowly, with gentle precision, his hands worked over her shoulders, nails dragging over the exposed skin of her back. 

Such a warm thing, his sweet wife. “May I remove your dress, sweetling?” 

Instead of answering with words, she nodded with a shaky breath. His fingers carefully undid the material bowed at the back of her waist, taking great pleasure when it fell in a heap to the floor, carefully working down the sleeves covering her arms. Inch by inch, pale flesh became visible to his eyes. 

A true Northern girl, not a tanned piece of skin in sight. 

While he’d know that her back had been bare, once her arms had been freed to rest at her sides, the soft silk of her dress fell while clinging to her hips, leaving her breasts on display; no corset or chemise in sight. 

Each breast donned a soft, dusty pink nipple that perked into a jewel from the cold air. Oh, how he longed to mark each teat his teeth, wanting to relish in her cries. 

Petyr kept his eyes in her while his hands drifted up to cup her breasts, feeling their weight in the palm of his hand. One day, they would grow swollen with milk to feed their children, the essence of life in his wife’s bosom. 

Carefully taking her nipple between his fingers, he tweaked it just enough to sting, loving the way his wife looked on with shock. It excited him that she was innocent and curious. While gently twisting one nipple and relishing in her feverishly blinking eyes, his other hand trailed down the finger the material of the dress that refused to fall. 

With a hard enough shove, it landed on the cold ground in a heap of blue cloth, leaving Sansa nearly bare. The most precious part of her remained confined in silk smallclothes, donned with a small bow. 

“You are more beautiful than I ever could have imagined.” Petyr worked to remove his coat and many layers of royal wear, but never broke their eyes. His pin unbuckled with ease and all too soon, he was left in just trousers with his chest bare. 

As he’d expected, her brows furrowed upon the sight of the scar marring his chest. She gently asked, “How did this happen to you?” 

“I was a fool long before I knew you, sweetling. And fools make all the wrong choices.” She gasped when his arm came around her waist to pull her to his chest. 

“But marrying you is the best one yet.” 

He moved them to the side of the bed, sitting her down while he stood between her legs. The pesky smallclothes remained, her fingers fisting the silk soft sheets under her thighs. Goosebumps erupted along her pale skin, and Petyr quickly ran his hands down her arms, falling to his knees between her bare legs. 

Petyr softly whispered, “Now that I’ve tasted these lips,” reaching up, he ran his thumb along her pink bottom lip, only to lower his hand to the crease of her thigh, rubbing the warm skin, “I’d love to kiss these ones as well.” 

Seeing the confusion in her eyes and deciding that showing was better than telling, he coerced her to lie flat on the bed. 

From where he stood, her bosom looked all the more appetizing, but he had a different meal in mind, and very delicately- as if unwrapping a gift long desired- Petyr undid the bow in her smallclothes. 

A thatch of red hair met his gaze, wiry and untamed. He’d used to enjoy them with nothing but clean shaven flesh, but his sweetling was kissed by fire, and he longed to be burned. Leaning down to nose at the thin hairs on her mound, he relished in the smell and her hearty gasp. 

Every part of his sweet wife smelt of the winter breeze in a field of lilies, but this forbidden part of her smelt of the earth that housed the flowers she loved so much. 

Gods, he had to taste her. 

Making quick work of her useless coverings, he gently wedged his shoulders between her thighs, making sure to pet her trembling legs in comfort. 

There was no reason to be scared, he wanted to say, but his mouth was preoccupied with salivating for her center. Perhaps it would taste as sweet as Southern wine, or as spicy as Dornish mead. 

Petyr found himself eye to eye with her lower lips, and he gently parted them with two fingers. Inside, her small clit innocently stared back, the lips of her pussy already glistening eagerly. Waiting no longer, his tongue found purchase in wrapping around her epicenter of pleasure, his hands squeezing her thighs when she let out a high moan. 

He continued this for some time; licking the folds of her sweet cunt that tasted of salt and foreign spices that tickled his tongue, nosing her soft clit until she gripped her hair and demanded more, taking satisfaction in bringing her pleasure beyond her wildest dreams. 

Eventually, she began to ride his face like a mare, chasing an unknown pleasure. And Petyr simply drank his fill on her sweet pussy, stuffing his tongue inside her virgin hole. 

The pesky wall of her maidenhood remained in his path, and his cock twitched in his breeches. Soon, he would break through her last barrier that kept them apart. 

It was fairly plain to see when his sweet wife was about to reach her peak; her soft thighs grew tight around his head and her cries grew higher and higher. 

It only took two flicks of the tongue and a particularly hard suck on her clit to have her screaming to the Gods, coating the lower half of his face in pale juices. Her peak lasted a few moments in which he gently kissed her swollen, trembling clit, smiling into her thigh at every flinch. 

His sensitive, greedy little wife. 

The moment her legs grew limp around his head, Petyr stood up. He looked down at Sansa, eyeing the sweat on her scalp and chest, smirking at the dazed look in her eyes. Poor girl had been wrung out to a limp mess. 

He ran his hand along her warm thigh, “How did you like that, my sweet wife?” 

“That…” she gulped with dry lips. Her throat felt parched. “Will you kiss me there every night if I ask?” 

“I would be honored to feast on you whenever you ask.” If possible, her cheeks grew redder at his vulgar language. “I am but your servant in this bed. I live to please.”

Finally removing his breeches and freeing his achingly hard cock, Petyr maneuvered them into a better position on the bed. Moving her up so her legs no longer hung off to the floor but with a pillow situated under her hips for height, his knees resting on the soft covers between her thighs.

Her center glistened in the moonlight from the window. 

Moving his right hand between her legs, he worked one finger in her wet hole. It was soft and warm, and he quickly moved onto two fingers, gently pulling them back and forth, in and out. When he tried to squeeze in a third, he met resistance. On her face was a look of discomfort. 

“Forgive me, this will not be the most pleasant feeling.” Eventually, three fingers slid in and out of her hole with ease, squelching noises echoing in both their ears. 

Petyr began to grow desperate to be inside of his wife and quickly took out his fingers. 

He made sure to rub the head of his cock through her juices, covering it to make the first thrust less painful. It was most undesirable that she had to feel any pain at all. If there were a way to take her aches and pains, he would a thousand times over. 

When he positioned his cock right where it needed to be, he could feel her tense up. “You must relax, Sansa. It will only hurt if you don’t.” 

“How bad will it be?” she whispered into the air. 

“It will be over before you know it. I swear.” 

Still sensing that she was frightened, he lowered himself so they were chest to chest, kissing her once more. It was much softer than before, and he felt her body grow limp. Reaching between them, he guided his cock until the tip was inside, then started to slowly thrust inside. The barrier of her innocence came fairly soon, and Petyr took a deep breath, plunging through it with ease. 

Sansa threw back her head and yelped, water lining her eyes and pain coursed through her lower half. It was worse than expected, and the strange feeling of being full didn’t help. 

Petyr, hating to see her in such distress, peppered kisses across her chest and neck, trying to sooth the pain he could not cure. He kept himself still as possible, waiting a handful of moments before slipping the rest of himself in. There was a minor flinch from her when he bottomed out, but aside from that, the worst was over. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, looking into her soft sapphire blues. 

“Yes, I think so. You can…” she trailed off, and he took that as enough sign to pull out, only to thrust back in. 

Her chest jolted and her teats pressed into his chest. From there on, he set a slow pace of jolting thrusts into her warm heat, feeling his own pleasure boil in his gut. 

Being inside Sansa felt better than anything he could’ve ever imagined in his mind's eye. No other came close to having the same tightness of the girl he’d craved and loved for too many years to count, and no other would ever take her place. Looking down at her, he would remember this sight for the rest of his days. Her red hair rested against the bed like a halo, and she looked like a goddess in human flesh. 

He eventually set a punishing pace that had Sansa gasping for air, one of his fingers having traveled down to furiously rub at her pink clit. 

He felt when her walls began to grow tight around his cock, holding onto his with a punishing grip. 

His own peak came after only three more thrusts, in which he stuffed himself as deep as he could inside her heat, spurting rope after rope of his seed into her belly. His finger never ceased rubbing at her clit, and she squeezed him hard when she reached her second peak of the night, screaming so loud he hoped the guards did not tear down the door. 

Both of their chests were coated in sheens of sweat that cooled quickly in the frozen air, leaving a chill on both their bodies. Once Petyr no longer felt his legs resembled jelly, he managed to pull back the sheets and gently tug Sansa to his chest, her heart beating a soft and slow rhythm. 

He wondered if life would always be this sweet with his pretty wife.

* * *

“You’re horrible, Petyr. Stop it right now.” She dodged his quick fingers. 

“I don’t believe I can, Lady Baelish. I find myself in need of you at every moment.” 

“Well, you can’t. We’ve only a handful of hours before- _Petyr!_ ” 

Sansa huffed, glaring at her horrible lord husband and his devious way. The man was insatiable beyond belief and while it did turn her cheeks a bright cherry red, it did inhibit any attempts at either of them journeying back to King’s Landing. 

It hadn’t been enough for her lord husband to have taken her thrice the night before, weaving their bodies together in ways all but foreign to her. She nearly grew faint remembering the sweet words he’d whispered, accompanied with even softer touched. 

But now, they needed to ready themselves for the journey ahead. 

“If you don’t let me prepare my things I swear I will not lie with you until we reach King’s Landing.” 

A mock look of hurt danced on Petyr’s face. “You would be so cruel, sweetling?” He lay bare chested against the fluffed down pillows, trailing one hand up and down the empty space that lacked her presence. “You would not deny me a place between your lovely thighs, would you?” 

“I would and I will if you do not help pack.” 

“Allow the handmaidens to pack your things, my love. It’s what they are paid to do and exactly why I am no longer caring about having my own things ready for our departure.”

“You didn’t bring anything with you. I, on the other hand, am uprooting my entire life and would like to have some say in what stays and what comes with me.” 

“You needn’t bring much, Sansa. I’d informed my Hand that I would be returning with a wife in need of clothes and anything her heart desires.” 

“You mean Tyrion Lannister?” She plopped on the edge of the bed, just out of his reach. “Let’s hope he knows what colors I prefer. Then again, I’ve heard he’s the smartest Lannister of them all.” 

From over her shoulder, the covers rustled. “I beg to differ. Tywin and Cersei were a force to be reckoned with.” 

“Which was why you had them executed.” 

“No, sweetling,” Petyr whispered as he plastered himself against her back. 

“Cersei committed treason and incest, and Tywin would not bend the knee. I even would have let the Kingslayer live, but his attachment to his sister was too deep. Out of all of them, Tyrion is the only one who was smart enough to know when to kneel, and when to fight. And for that, I’ve not snuffed out the Lannister name.” 

Petyr allowed his hands to run a course around Sansa’s waist, cupping her breasts and pinching the soft skin. He whispered, “I am a merciful King to my people, and you will be happy, my sweet.” 

“The merciful king,” she mused, leaning back into his chest. “What will I be? Since you’re merciful and such.” 

Petyr grinned into her ear, trailing one hand down to cup her sensitive core. “There will be songs sung of the chained queen, shackled to her lord husband's bed.” he carefully ran one finger over her damp lips, nudging the trembling bead of pink flesh. “I can only imagine what they’ve already begun to sing about my sweet wife.” 

It only took a few nudges of his finger to have Sansa’s back bowing into his chest, mouth open in a soundless scream. 

* * *

“A word, your Grace.” 

The duo of Sansa and Petyr had made it past the stable, seeing one carriage- courtesy of Winterfell, as Petyr had not brought one himself- and the group of Kingsguard waiting in silence. Petyr turned back to look at the hard face of Jon Snow, the bastard's eyes squinted into slits. It seemed as though petulance was a permanent state on the other man’s face. 

“Jon!” his wife yelled, lifting the soft purple of her skirts in an attempt to rush to the other man, but Petyr held her back. So, she said “I was beginning to think you didn’t mean to see me off.” 

“I’d like a word with your husband, Sansa.” 

“Oh?” Her brows shot up. “Is something wrong?” 

Jon shook his head, “I merely wish to offer your husband my words of congratulation before you take your leave. If you would allow us a moment alone, sister.” 

Petyr could see that Sansa didn’t take well to being asked to leave, so he gently ushered his wife to the carriage in the distance. “We shall be but a few moments.” 

Both men watched her huff and stalk off, her luscious red locks waving away. 

Jon spoke first, “If I find you’ve treated my sister poorly, or hurt her in any way, I won’t rest until I’ve freed your head from your shoulders.” 

“Death would be too kind for the man who hurts Sansa. Though I suspect you think I’ve already done something to earn her ire.” He nodded in his wife’s direction. “Does she not seem content to you?” 

“Women have been taught to hide pain for centuries, my sister is no different.” 

“Or perhaps you cannot believe the truth of the matter. You should be happy for your sister, Snow. Many girls her age would not be so lucky.” 

“Is that what we’re calling this situation? Luck?” 

Petyr smiled with teeth. “I’m the luckiest man in Westeros. And even you’re smart enough to know that.” 

“I know some things, Lord Baelish.” Jon’s hands clenched at his sides. “You mustn't tell Sansa I’ve decided to take the Black. There’s nothing left for me in Winterfell, not anymore.”

Petyr jerked his head to look at Jon, “You must be either mad or just a fool. Only a dead man would willingly take the Black. Castle Black is full of thieves and murderers.” 

“Aye.” 

Petyr, seeing that Jon wasn’t changing his mind or showed a shred of fear, changed his tactic. “It would break my wife’s heart if you were to die beyond the Wall. There would be nobody to bury, nothing for her to mourn. It would kill her, Snow. Don’t be a fool.” 

Petyr wanted to throttle the bastard. Word of the horror beyond the Wall even frightened the King, and this boy wanted to see it firsthand just because his heart was broken. 

It was childish and inconsiderate to Sansa, so Petyr spat, “You will see things beyond any nightmare of your creation, Jon. Believe me, please.” 

Jon kept his eyes trained on his sister, waiting by the carriage. “I know, Lord Baelish. I know.” 

But he didn’t. 

“You know _nothing,_ Jon Snow.” And with that, Petyr swept away to his wife. 

The King would be glad to be rid of Winterfell. 

“Is everything alright, my love?” Sansa asked, eyeing the rage in his eyes. 

Oh, how he longed to spill Jon’s decision to his wife. The true ire she would feel and the hate that would brew in her belly would only bring him joy. The bastard was a nuisance, through and through.

Except, not even Petyr was that cruel. His wife loved Jon, and he refused to break her heart by spilling what had been revealed. 

“He wishes us good tidings, nothing more.” Not waiting one more moment, they made to bid farewells to the rest of the Starks. It was a long journey ahead. 

* * *

As Petyr had promised, their rooms were filled to the brim with every color of cloth Sansa could think of, ranging from the vibrant yellow of King’s Landing, to the deep, dark blue of Winterfell. Tyrion had made good on his word

“You’re most gracious, Tyrion.” 

“I live to please, my Queen. Nothing more.” 

Now, basking in the sunlight of her new home, Sansa watched her husband ready for the day. It was the peaceful moments like these that she relished in, murmuring “I never want to leave this bed.” 

“I would love nothing more than to lie in your arms until my brain turns to rot, but alas, you married a King, sweetling. Rulings need to be held, money handled and people sated. I’m sorry to say it never truly ends.” 

“Well, why don’t you deal with the people while I rest my eyes for a bit? You did keep me up terribly late last night.” She lay one arm over her eyes and snuggled deeper into the covers, hiding a laugh when her husband scoffed. 

“Lazy wife of mine,” Petyr mused. “I’d hate to have to drag you down to the Hall in nothing but your smallclothes.” 

Her arm jerked back, staring with puffed out cheeks, “You wouldn’t dare.” 

“I would, sweetling.” 

“You’re horrible.” Sansa moaned. 

Petyr, dressed to the nines in a slim fitted coat that defined his figure, watched Sansa with a smile, holding out a hand in front. 

“Come, Sansa. Let Westeros meet their new Queen.” 

~ _The End_ _~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully you enjoyed!!!
> 
> Loved writing this and I look forward to writing more got in the future!
> 
> fyi, just finished season seven with my friend... and I knew Petyr was gonna die but it hURT. 
> 
> Also, we call him Chicken Fingies.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment if you enjoyed!


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